


36 Ways to Say It

by TheCityLightShow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCityLightShow/pseuds/TheCityLightShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a month, John recieves a postcard - every month, on the first. He knows it's stupid, but still he hopes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	36 Ways to Say It

_Once a month John gets a postcard. They’re all of places he’s never been to and each has a few words, a small phrase, written on the back. They’re words of another language, in the script of the worlds only consulting detective._

_John lives for these postcards. He knew it was silly, that it was stupid. The detective was long dead, had long abandoned his blogger, so it wasn’t him sending these. It couldn’t be – and yet John didn’t care. It was his handwriting and it was hand-delivered – something so Sherlock that it mattered to him on a level he didn’t understand._

_John had no delusions about how he felt for Sherlock. Denials, yes, but never delusions. John had loved Sherlock, but even now he doubted he’d ever say it. He just wouldn’t – because there was no one to say it to._

~~

I winced as I stood up stiffly from my bed. My bloody limp had returned with a vengeance, just a week after the fall. I grasped my cane and limped down the stairs and into the living room, sighing as I glanced towards his abandoned violin, expecting as always to see him sat there playing it. Even now, nearly three years later, I could still hear the last piece he had played.

I limped into the kitchen and made myself coffee. Black, two sugars. Today was the first of the month, the thirty-sixth month, and I was due a postcard. As I went back into the living room, I looked at the thirty five I had pinned to the wall, number from one to thirty- five out of thirty six. I could read the phrases on each, but I hadn’t tried too hard to understand what they said, as I knew that when Sherlock returned to me, or when I returned to him, that he would delight, simply delight, in telling me what they said. I had already figured that they most likely meant the same thing, and that was enough for me.

I sat down to wait, knowing that Mrs Hudson would shout when the post came, but the shout never came. The post did, but there wasn’t anything for me. No postcard. Nothing. Had they, had _Sherlock_ forgotten? No, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t.

_Jag älska dig. Miluji tě. Jeg elsker dere._

The words from the most recent postcards swam in front of my eyes, almost floating in the tears I was trying to ignore. I fell asleep in my armchair.

I sat bolt upright, registering by the darkened room that it must be well past midnight. I was startled by the knocking on the door; the quiet yet insistent blows it was receiving had woken me up. The door to 221 Baker Street was opened.

~~

“You’re late!” a rather tired Mrs Hudson exclaimed as she ushered me inside. “You’d best hurry up.”

I smiled at her briefly, thankful that she had kept my secret, thankful that she had understood the need til it would be safe. 36 months it had taken, and finally I could deliver the message in person. “I know, I know, I’m sorry, my flight was delayed…” I was panting, completely out of practice. I’d run most of the way across London, the traffic too bad to risk getting a cab.

I kissed Mrs Hudson lightly on the cheek and dashed up the steps, two at a time, feeling irrational joy at the fact that John, my best friend, my _only_ friend would be just behind the door. Would he be happy to see me? Had he worked out what the postcards said? I stopped outside the door, and heard John stand up from the couch inside.

I took the postcard I had bought on the way here, and wrote the words on the back of it, with the pen I had used to write the rest. I slipped it under the door and heard as John limped over. I heard him pick it up from the floor and I closed my eyes, leaning back against the wall, praying that John wouldn’t overreact.

I waited, but no more sound came. I gently knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” the voice was hopeful, filled with tears, but it was John’s voice all the same. I wanted to laugh in relief, but merely consented myself to reply.

“Number 36.”

John took four steps forwards, hesitated, and then opened the door.

I smiled sheepishly.

John punched me.

I straightened back up, and was shocked at the expression on his face. He looked guilty.

“I deserved that.” I said with a shrug and a smile. He smiled slightly and stepped to one side to let me into the apartment. I walked in, and stood in the room, not daring to sit down.

John laughed at me, “Sit down, idiot, I’ll make tea.”

“John, it’s two in the morning. Sorry 36 was late by the way.”

John sighed and went to sit in his armchair anyway. I took my old seat across from him and he looked at me. There were five minutes of slightly uncomfortable silence, before John eventually spoke again.

“Did they all say the same thing?” he asked me.

I looked at him, smiling, with a face that simply said ‘ _don’t ask silly questions John_ ’ and leant back in my chair.

~~

I stared at him, wondering whether or not to be annoyed at the lack of an answer. Had they? Had it really taken Sherlock, straight-to-the-point, emotion-less Sherlock, thirty-six ways to tell me that he-?

I shook my head slightly. I didn’t even believe the words he’d written. If they were true… Then I was dreaming. Because the Sherlock I knew, even the one I thought I knew, would not have written those words.

“Yes.”

I looked up, uncertain I had heard the word or imagined it. Sherlock was smiling at me, his grey eyes alight, his black curls splayed over his face and he was _blushing._ He had said it. They had all meant the same phrase, the English phrase that I had read, as plain as day, on the postcard. The postcard I was still clutching in my hand.

“Okay then.” I replied.

Sherlock looked at me then, the smile fading slightly. “I am sorry for what I did, and I can only hope you’ll forgive me. If not, then I will go.” He stood up looking uncomfortable, no, _upset._

“I don’t want you to go.” I whispered, “Ever.”

Sherlock laughed and walked over, pulling me up into an almost bone crushing hug, affection conveyed in it that I hadn’t thought the detective was capable of. I hugged him back, letting him hug me harder, almost lifting me off the ground.

The postcard drifted to the floor, but I knew that it didn’t matter. We both knew the feeling was mutual, and in some ways we always had. The words still made me smile, written in his elegant style.

‘ _I love you.’_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously posted on fanfiction.net (I was Dansel Smith) and recently deleted - this IS my own work. 
> 
> Hope you liked it! x


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